To London Town by Arthur Morrison

JOHNNY had finished his tea, and was lying at his ease in the old easy-chair, whistling, rattling his heels on the hearth, and studying a crack in the ceiling that suggested an angry face. Mrs. May had put the sixpence the sloes had brought into the cracked teacup that still awaited the return of Uncle Isaac's half-crown, had washed the tea-things, and was now mending the worn collar of gran'dad's great-coat, in readiness for the winter. Bessy had fallen asleep over her book, had been wakened, had fallen asleep again, and in the end had drowsily climbed the stairs to early bed: but still the old man did not return.

"I wonder gran'dad ain't back yet," Johnny's mother said for the third time. "He said he'd be quick, so's to finish that case to-night." This was a glass-topped mahogany box, in course of setting with specimens of all the Sphinges: a special private order.